


éventrer d'un coup de corne

by haywoodyablowme



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Blood, Gore, Guro, M/M, NSFW, Near Death, Vivisection, You gotta deal, i was goaded into writing this, its an experience babey!, like he doesnt actually die in this version but like in the extended cut he'd fuckin die, like thats cool but you just, oh theres some projection onto cutter, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 15:33:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15052343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haywoodyablowme/pseuds/haywoodyablowme
Summary: marcus cutter and warren kepler have some bloody good fun!





	éventrer d'un coup de corne

**Author's Note:**

> really and truly this is something im proud of but i really don't know how i got to this point, and like. Okay cool im posting it to AO3, and like, it's cool i think, but the important thing here is that this fic has like. some graphic gore I think so like take this as you will, be safe and don't like. don't play yourself youre better than that. oh it's also vaguely sexual, so do with that what you will

“I mean-“ he start, tightening a belt on Kepler’s wrist, double checking that he stays bound, “you- asked me, to do this- so you can’t be like- mad- right?” he traces his nails up his forearm to his elbow, gentle to the touch and soft in voice. Kepler goes to answer- manages a Yeah, right around the gag he’s forgotten about already. Saliva starts to drip down his lower lip from it and Cutter grins wickedly. He places a soft kiss to his cheek and walks to the edge of the room. A bluetooth speaker chimes on and a playlist starts soon after- something upbeat and poppy that goads one on to dance as if they were in some teen movie.

It starts innocently enough, a blade cuts away at his shirt with Cutter straddling his lap. He mutters along to the song, bobbing his head, sounding a little hollow and distorted bouncing off the walls of this eerie room. Though no blood has spilled yet, the stains of those before him still linger. Maybe it adds to the experience- knowing the person in front of him knows how human bodies tick- is nearly an expert at deconstruction. It chills him, the thought of him brutalizing so many others, it’s a horrifying thought knowing the private affairs of an intimate, but it’s somewhat exhilarating as well. Somewhere in the dark parts of Kepler’s mind- past the self preservation screaming for him to break free from these bonds, well into the areas where his bloodlust lives- there’s a rush of excitement seeing a pretty face grin at him like this. Like he’s his prey. The blade in Cutter’s hand trails over his skin, raising goosebumps in its wake as he visualizes the pieces of him beneath his skin. He watches intently- observes each muscle twitch with each hitched breath after a knick in the skin, his pulse rising- how animalistic the feeling is of this control of life or death. He could bite the arteries out of his throat. Rip the life from him right now- sure, he’d come back in a few days but- the display of power that would be is bar none.

A few moments pass of this- slightly grazes and knicks with a knife almost too sharp to feel any real pain. It’s foreplay, light as can be without any real damage. A thought pops into his head and Cutter stands up- rushes to a corner of the room with a stainless steel table and IV drip. He hooks a bag to the stand, wheel both the table and drip over to Kepler. He glances to him and arches a brow.

“Oh- it’s and adrenal drip- just so you won’t pass out while I’m having fun,” Cutter practically chirps it to him, wrapping a tourniquet around Kepler’s upper elbow and slapping the inner bend gently. He pauses and, “What if I just. What if I just- got you high and shot heroin instead?” He grins, whatever Kepler said is made somewhat unintelligible- at least for Cutter, he’s a bit too giddy as he swipes an alcohol pad over his skin and slide the drip needle into his arm. Sure- he’s gentle as he places a cotton ball and medical tape over it. Kepler’s eyes dilate and he takes in a sharp breath, the chemical doesn’t hit immediately- it’s a few moments of heavy breathing and squeezing his hands into fists before he can think clearly again. Then- everything’s a rush- the clarity of everything is crystalline yet opaque. Everything present makes sense, but, the anticipation of what will or may come- is just too overwhelming for his heightened senses. Almost too much time passes between the hormone hitting his blood and his registry of the blade Cutter had before carving into his opposite bicep. He makes a groaning noise and flexes that arm- he drives the blade deeper and clicks his tongue. Kepler doesn’t open his eyes when he hisses a venomous stay still in his ear. He just swallows the lump in his throat and breathes out in this shaking rough voice. His fingers dig into the arm of his chair and his chest rises and falls as the blade sinks into him, half inch by half inch. 

Tears sting his eyes and he tries to steady his breath. The blade sinks halfway to the hilt, stopping to tap against his bone a few times. The first time was enough to wrench a choked, wet yell from him. The repetitions become halfway monotonous but that doesn’t stop the noises from continuing- his chest is heaving and he can barely breathe yet he stays alert. He swears under his breath and glares at the drip- as if that would rip it from his arm and save him from this. Cutter simply hums, wiggles the blade around and draws more primal sounds from Kepler. He murmurs along- mocking him, then, and, with both hands on the hilt and the tip to his humerus, he drags the blade down his arm. Kepler’s entire body protests, tries to jerk away from the pain, but, every restraint is just tight enough to keep him as still as possible for him to continue this experiment. every movement is jerky- Kepler’s protests and Cutter’s advancements, both lack finesse in this moment. The severance of Kepler’s muscle- the faint trails left on his bones, it’s clumsy. Cutter’s hands shake and he bites his lower lip, watching blood drip out from this incision and fighting every other urge to do something much more drastic.

He stares for a moment and hold his arm in both hands. There’s no tenderness in the act, his fingertips dig into his flesh and he sucks in a tight breath, it’s not as excruciating but still resonates as uncomfortable. Kepler expects something- a heated blade to stop the bleeding- but instead, a series of gentle kisses and licks trail up his arm following the trail of blood near the wound, still squeezing on his arm, what does not get caught up on his lips or tongue does start to coat his fingertips. He takes a deep breath and collects himself. Kepler calms down- does the closest thing to calming down, at least, and he flexes his hands, trying to breath deeply. Do something keep himself from screaming again. Cutter reaches to the table next to him and grabs a pair of retractors up. He kisses Kepler’s cheek again, leaving a darker red lip stain on his flesh, and he inserts the tip of the instrument into his skin. He takes a deep breath and squeeze the handle of the device. Kepler’s skin works open and his arm tenses yet again, opposite hand searching for anything that might even suggest aid at this point. Layers or skin and fat are pushed aside, each degree of separation brings a new guttural sound from Kepler’s throat. 

The tool clicks, keeping itself open and spreading his flesh centimeter by centimeter, an excruciating increment for the both of them- too slow for the both of them. After a few moments of this, Cutter stops moving the retractors. With his muscle exposed and the wound in it attempting to heal itself. The blade still sits buried in the tissue, with a vague hesitance, he moves it. He wiggles the hilt around a bit and Kepler squirms almost preemptively. He moves the blade up this arm again- through the wound he already made, and sever any mending ties it may have managed to form in the meantime. He slides the blade in the wound for a few moments. It doesn’t feel any better or worse for Kepler, it’s just another motion Cutter needs to perform. Moments pass in this almost silence. The up-beat poppy music has faded into more bass heavy, slower songs, and Cutter’s pace is slower- more excruciating. He lingers with dragging the blade along his bone, and reach for the pair of needle-nose forceps with almost laziness in his movements; he pokes at his muscle with the tool and pain shoots through Kepler yet again. He jerks and from his rough throat lets out another animalistic sound, even that hurts now. He can barely see, his eyes spotting and dotted with black needle points. His breath is ragged by this point- heaving with sobs and his arm almost losing feeling. Not quite a numbness but rather the idea of removing his own arm lessens the pain by millimeters until the forceps pull up the sCutterered fibers of his bicep. He drops the bicep and grabs at his brachialis, he pulls it away from his bone so he can get a better look- how it folds under the bicep and, around the tricep and humerus and the radialis. 

It’s fascinating. 

Kepler hisses- tries to curse and yell, but nothing comes forth from his throat. He’s all choked, cracked, croaking noises and tearful eyes. A shaking breath, and, fingers twitching and curling inward, toward his palm or the arm of his chair- whichever is closer. It’s hard to tell at this point. His eyes move too quickly- pupils as wide as saucers and, blinking away something he can’t quite pinpoint. Cutter hits the tip of the blade into his bone a little harder. Tries to chip away at the metal or his bone, see what he could break first. It’s monotonous enough, tapping the blade along to this song, waiting and hoping a score would appear in the bone. His hips swirl to the music for a moment, settle back on Kepler’s thighs, still moving his hips around and humming along to the music as he chips away at his bone. The forceps clatter to the floor as they’re dropped in favor or this new game Cutter’s devised.

Almost suddenly, he stops. He stops the movements and pull the blade slowly from the incision. Kepler looks almost curiously at him- really he can’t be done. Sure- he was screaming bloody murder moments ago but- this is a kitten scratch next to his previous works. His train of thought is cut short as a foreign sawing feeling hits him. His bicep is being sawed at and all he can do is stare at Cutter slack jawed. This is hideous- he knows what’s going to happen when the head of that muscle snaps free. He’s seen it before- it’ll roll up like a measuring tape, hide under the skin that isn’t severed and make an ugly bump near his shoulder. It’s only a matter of time-

“Oh my god- Warren are you,” Cutter starts to giggle. “Are you, turned on by this?” He purrs in his ear, grinding their hips together in an abrupt yet, fluid motion. The obvious answer is no- well. Sort of. He knows he shouldn’t really be turned on. He’s being cut open for god sake. And yet- clear as day, he’s got a hard on in this very moment. “Well-“ Cutter giggles it so innocently. “What do you have to say for yourself?” He takes the gag from his mouth and arches an eyebrow. 

Kepler’s breath is ragged and rough and he spends a good thirty seconds catching his breath and panting, looking over the man in his lap and, screaming so animalistically when he wedges his knife in his muscle- again. He pants and shakes and looks almost betrayed at the act.

“Jesus- Christ,” Kepler sighs and rolls his eyes, panting and only really propped up by his restraints. “Sadist.” He hisses; Cutter smiles. 

“Isn’t that what you signed up for?” He purrs, bucking his hips up against him yet again. He moans- rough and low, right in his ear. “You wanted the full experience- so you could help me sometime?” He purrs, holding his cheeks with hisr bloodied hands. “Are you having fun?” He rolls his hips on his- more drawn out and slower this time, digging his nails into the fleshy underside of Warren’s jaw. 

He nods. It’s unfair to say he’s bewitched- he is charming. Almost too charming for his own good. Cutter’s bloody lips graze his, sharing a series of gentle kisses as he runs his thumbs over Kepler’s cheeks. He lets out a soft whimper when he pulls away. It had to come sometime- can’t get soft when you’re in this line of work. 

Cutter wipes his hands on a dirty cloth resting on that damn table- it’s stained with so many other samples of blood, and, lipstick- and when he’s done, he tosses it back down and stands up straight. He smooths out his outfit- smearing blood on it- and checks his phone.

“I’ll be- right back-” Cutter mutters, holding up a finger and edging around the room before reaching the door.

“Yeah,” Kepler nods, Chest heaving and the pain still searing inside of him. He looks around himself. He’s a mess. His arm pulled apart and his other hand so tense he could rend muscle from bone on his own if he doesn’t relax his fist. He can visualize the crescent imprints on his palm or on the chair and he’s breathing so heavily now. He looks toward the table- it’s got a little infamy attached to it at this point. He looks it over- the scalpels, forceps, retractors, the clamps, scissors, and suction cups. Even more blades that match the one in his arm. Christ. 

It’s hard to tell how much time passes when Cutter leaves. That’s sort of the point- to put off anyone who comes in here with the misfortune of receiving. The music stopped when Cutter took his phone, and, there’s no windows in the room- no real indication of time passing in this bloody concrete room. It’s almost got the same energy as an abandoned KMart. However morbid that may be. It feels like an hour when Cutter saunters back in, but it couldn’t have been more than- what, five minutes? The blood on his hands somewhat tacky looking and when on his clothes is still red- or. Maybe a blood vessel burst in his eye. The smell that follows Cutter- rather, precedes him- is tantalizing. Garlic, pepperoni, tomato- God there has to be a reason he loves this man. 

“You ordered pizza-” Kepler starts with a lopsided grin, “Oh my god-”

“Shut up-” Cutter barely cuts him off, a little defensive at that, “don’t be mean- or I won’t share.” He teases, holding the stack of boxes in various sizes atop one flattened palm as his other hand lays out paper towels over his various tools. 

“Wow, isn’t that breaking the Geneva Conventions?” Kepler monotones. He glances to the boxes then back to Cutter. “That would just be cruel.” Cutter grins and shakes his head, blonde curls shake free from his headband and fall over his face. He opens one of the smaller boxes first- the smell of garlic is overpowering, it’s almost too pungent for the size of this room. The box is positioned between them as if to offer to share, and Kepler huffs. It’s a joke- however mean it may be.

“I am cruel.” He shrugs, taking a bite from the end piece of his garlic bread. “It’s my thing, Warren,” Kepler snorts a laugh and rolls his eyes. “I know you’re-” he pauses, “-into it too.” He manages to say it between bites and finishes off his first piece. 

“Yeah whatever-” He looks almost pained as time passes. Almost becoming more and more certain that he’s not getting anything from any of those boxes. He’d rather have him go back to sawing away at his bicep then have to sit here, knowing there’s something within his grasp but not be able to take it. God dammit. 

Cutter takes his sweet time- passes over the box radiating a sickly sweet smell and one that marries together bacon and tomatoes and lifts them with one hand, sets the pizza box on Kepler’s lap (near enough to his hips so the heat brings a special sort of pain). He rearranges the boxes and pick up the pizza, set it on top and open it up. Pepperoni, spinach, and chicken. They can’t all be winners. Cutter picks up a slice and takes a bite. Hums as he chews and let his eyes flutter shut. Kepler’s lips quirk upward for a moment.

“Oh- hey,” He sets his slice in the box and pick up another, offering it to him. “Want some..?” He ask in a gentler voice. Kepler nods. He opens his mouth and he feeds Kepler. He takes bites and he feeds him and take bites from his own slice. When they’re both done with their pieces, Cutter leans over and places a gentle kiss on Warren’s lips again. He kisses back and he grins almost devilishly against his lips. 

He doesn’t untie his wrists. Why would he? He keeps Kepler tied to the chair and feed him- pizza, garlic bread, whatever else he’d like. And Cutter follows suit. If they’re both eating then- it’s okay. They each have a lava cake. It’s almost too sweet and threatens to bring on toothaches but it’s rich and warm and tops everything off nicely. A little too full feeling but- these things happen. Cutter puts music back on, something trance-like with a simpler beat but still something to get lost in. He doesn’t get back to it immediately. It’s just something to relax to. 

Cutter slips onto the ground as something vaporwave comes on. He sits in front of Kepler, staring at him in a daze. There’s something to be said of the similarity he holds like this to- say, the Lincoln memorial. The bloody handprints and tortured look on him has to mean something- and the gag. That alone holds an essay of symbolism. It’s up to the imagination what an erection symbolizes. The eroticism that’s thinly veiled in the gore and horror of American media? Or maybe it’s how the general public eats up this horror show in a way that almost cannibalizes it and causes only more destruction. It’s something for a scholar to think on- but Cutter dropped out, and he, has work to do still. 

At first- Cutter didn’t notice how he’s leant back on his palms, shoulders pushed up and head tilted to one side to press his cheek to his upturned collarbone. It’s just a resting position as he admires what he’s done so far and pictures what could be done. God, he’s gonna be a mess. Maybe he should take the food from the room- it’s only gonna get ruined. But the allure of leftovers is ever present. Cutter pushes himself up, dusting himself off and taking care to do the same for his hands, his legs just stiff enough to make the circle he walks around Kepler look awkward at best. He rubs his hands against his pants on the first go round, then traces his fingers over Kepler’s broad shoulders the next round. A ghostly touch of Cutter’s neatly painted nails- just enough to send chills up his spine.

Cutter stops in front of him, setting a hand on his shoulder and bending over to be eye level with him. Cutter’s hand slides up his shoulder and neck- past the gag to cup his cheek. He wears a neutral expression and try in some attempt to look gentle. It’s one of the rare moments where he actually looks into Kepler’s eyes. Not just at his hairline or nose or forehead. So he stays quiet, waits for him to speak.

“Are you ready to keep going-? Or- do- do you wanna stop?” He starts to stutter and taper off, glancing to the side as he finishes and rubs his thumb against his cheek in a comforting motion. Kepler stays quiet for a moment.

“Yeah.” His voice is quiet to match his. Still rough around the edges, but closer to his normal. He doesn’t move drastically- he can’t. The blood flow is halfway restricted in one hand and the other is immovable through the mutilation of his own arm. Even if it is rather tame at the moment, every other instinct is telling him not to strain that side of him. Cutter fits the gag back in his mouth and kisses Kepler’s forehead. He sighs and stands straight up. Walking back to his bluetooth speaker and turning up the music, he switches back to R&B and smoother beats. He spends time around the edge of the room rifling through pouches and tabletops, coming back after a soft gasp and replacing the bag on the IV drip with- another, pouch of adrenaline. 

“It was- running dry.” The explanation is sputtered out and more to fill silence as he hypes himself back up. It feels a little claustrophobic at points- almost too heavy and palpable to be actually comfortable. Even if this isn’t comfortable as a whole- what with pizza cooling off not even a foot away and a blade sticking out of Kepler’s arm. It’s a little unnerving but- what isn’t nowadays. He pats the bag in three rhythmic couplets and set the drip to slow-release. He shakes out his hands and pace around Kepler again, steps in time with the song playing and eyes scanning him over in some predatory manner; appraising him piece by piece, stopping at his side and taking hold of the hilt of the blade in his arm, and pulling to the side a centimeter. Kepler screams- predictably so, winces in pain and jerks himself away from the source of pain the best he can.

Warren’s voice almost immediately goes back to rough and hoarse, it’s pitiful for a moment- but not enough for Cutter to really stop. Sure he cares but- he’ll be fine. Warren likes it.

Logically- he knows he doesn’t have to saw away at his arm. He knows with all his being that he could make a few good slices and have the same end game- but drawing it out is so delightful- also the movement ruins what work his body did recuperating and fixing itself post trauma. The motion is relaxing too- it’s calming almost, barring the sounds of terror and pain pouring from Kepler’s mouth. Drool stringing down his chin and his eyes unfocused, staring at nothing behind Cutter, trying to focus to no avail. 

He doesn’t continuously scream- dear God that would be too much- he screams in bursts. Jagged breathing mingling with grinding groans of pain and horror. Alternating between groans and something close to scream- it doesn’t phase him. Just something more to deal with. This- scream, reaches a peak when his bicep finally gives and it curls in on itself, slinking up the humerus under his skin and creating an uneven, grotesque looking lump around his shoulder. The sheer sensation of it all doesn’t wrench forth some gasping scream, instead, it leaves Kepler wordless as he looks between Cutter and his arm. He didn’t think he’d see his inner arm so intimately, or that it would curl up like a broken windscreen. It’s so ugly to him- alien and inhuman- it shouldn’t exist, but he can’t will it away. This is permanent- at least for the foreseeable future. 

He’s a bit horrified- the fact that Cutter remains unblinking or uncaring, as he wrenches Warren apart. Eventually, he moves on- pull the blade from his arm and toss it to the side as if it were nothing. He scans the tabletop beside him and- give a quick glance searching for- there. The scalpel. He kisses a line down Kepler’s throat and settles onto his lap yet again. He moves his hips again and- he is still hard. Perfect. 

Cutter grinds up on him, nothing too torturous or inhumane in that, is there? He leans back a bit, head lulling and a moan dripping from his parted lips. The scalpel finds its way to his throat- not exactly pushing in or, trying to hurt him. Just a lingering presence he has to deal with. That however- doesn’t even begin to compare to the movement of Cutter’s thighs on his- the almost threat of danger, and the insinuation of what would be happening if not for layers of fabric- it’s too much for him to comprehend. He physically can’t comprehend the sensation- searing pain, and this, hellish pleasure, it’s something unique- something no one else would possibly feel. 

He grabs at what remains of his shirt collar- he doesn’t pull Kepler closer, but instead just steadies himself on his thigh. Letting his head fall back as he moans out and sighs so loudly, holding him so- he leans closer, pressing the blade into his flesh, blood beading around the tip of the knife. The pain registers just below the trauma of his arm- it’s nothing in comparison. His eyes- still unfocused- flood with tears. This- sensation-- the agonizing bliss of this moment is truly demonic. He rolls his hips on his, grind down and teases him- edges him closer to some release he likely wouldn’t reach in the near future.

The dance continues- the knife being pressed further into the soft flesh of the underside of Warren’s jaw, and Cutter’s hips moving on his, with his, even. He wants more- wants to feel more than this, something of more pain or pleasure or- anything. It would be so easy for him to make it happen- just ride him while he’s tied down like this, but- he knows Cutter wouldn’t dare. Why give him the satisfaction, something or another. It’s almost undoubtedly what he’d say to him- coo in his ear and taunt him. Call him something degrading and say that he doesn’t do what the other person wants. It’s nothing personal- he never does. The blade isn’t buried in his throat but- it’s gone beyond being pressed to his neck. It could support itself if he were to let go. It’s fascinating, truly.

Kepler doesn’t seem to notice the blade- maybe he does, or he’s more focused on how he’s moving- how he’s ceasing to move. His eyes focus on Cutter- open enough to see his shape against whatever light is behind him, able to make out that his eyes are open and he’s searching his chest for- something. Taking the scalpel from his neck is a mistake Cutter is willing to make. He pulls the blade from him and his blood spurts out- nothing dramatic. Just a weak, low pressure fountain from his neck that sputters and spurts out of the narrow wound. He sighs when it hits him- and clench his fist and takes a deep breath when he realizes it’ll stain his clothes. 

He tries not to pay mind to the blood dribbling down his and Warren’s skin and occasionally spraying him. It’s not noteworthy; not to him. In fact- it’s the least interesting thing on his mind. The fun thing- is what’s to come. It won’t be easy- not by any stretch of the imagination- but the result would be, phenomenal.

He traces the blade down the center of Warren’s chest first and let the tip of the blade linger along his sternum a few moments longer than he probably should. The index finger on his free hand follows the blade- sure that it sticks to form- and presses down on his sternum once more. He stands for a moment and look around the room- he needs two pairs of retractors and a bungee cord. The retractors are simple enough to find- in some surgical packaging or scattered about bloody bins- the bungee is behind bins- discarded and unused. Coming back to his project, he wraps the cord around Kepler’s back, hook the ends around the grip of the retractors and then let them grip to the chair. He doesn’t resume his seated position, rather, he bends over, face to face with him, not keeping eye contact, even as he looks at him in confusion. It’s obvious to him, what’s going to happen here- so the confusion in his face doesn’t make sense to him. Not an ounce. The positioning, the scalpel- hell, even how he’s tracing down his chest- it should be obvious.

He hums along to the song in the background and traces the blade over the center of Kepler’s chest again- his heart is just slightly on his right hand side, and the skin above isn’t too mutilated. He purrs the lyrics of the song playing for a moment as he drags the blade over his chest- a little more pressure as he reaches his left pec. Warren really is a specimen beyond compare- perfect for this. He isn’t quick with this- deliberately carving out his initials into Kepler’s chest, right above his heart. His breathing picks up, and he wants to yell, scream, shout for help-- but the repercussions of that would be more heinous than he’d like for the time being. Instead he lets out a low, long groan, something rough and pained as it would be. It breaks into whimpers and whines that Cutter takes care to gently shush as he makes them. He is concentrating after all. And there is much more work to be done.


End file.
